


Five Times Sherlock Held John and One Time John Held Sherlock

by chellefic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellefic/pseuds/chellefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fic is set post-Reichenbach, but deals only indirectly with the events from Series 2, Episode 3.</p>
<p>As for plot, it's pretty much what the title says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sherlock Held John and One Time John Held Sherlock

**When John discovers it really is fine**

Two months and six days after Sherlock's return, John finished the washing up and turned from the sink to find Sherlock in his space. Right in his space, close enough that if John took a deep breath their chests would brush.

John lifted his gaze to Sherlock's face, and when Sherlock leaned down, he tilted his head.

That had been an hour earlier, maybe more. Now John was lying in Sherlock's bed in the middle of the afternoon, listening to the steady beat of Sherlock's heart.

Sherlock's chest was firm and the arms he had wrapped around John's shoulders were holding on quite tightly. John didn't mind. Part of him wondered if he should mind. He was usually the one on his back with a woman curled up next to him, her soft curves pressed against his side. 

John moved his hand so it was resting in the center of Sherlock's chest.

"John, after extensive investigation I have reached the conclusion that I love you." Sherlock kept his eyes on the ceiling as he spoke.

That explained why Sherlock had spent most of the last three days locked in his room with a pile of books. "Yes, I know."

"Oh."

"I can't say I've investigated the subject or engaged in any extensive analysis. For example, I haven't compared my feelings to those expressed by Elizabeth Barrett Browning in her sonnets." Sherlock winced, and John fought to keep from smiling as he lifted himself up onto his elbow. "Nevertheless,," he said, gazing down at Sherlock, "I think it's safe to say I love you, too."

"Oh."

John kissed him. It was lazy; after all they didn't have anything pressing to attend to. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to keep kissing Sherlock until they were both thoroughly aroused all over again. But that could wait.

With a gentle brush of his lips to Sherlock's, John lay back down, his ear over Sherlock's heart.

 

**When everything is better than fine**

Shifting, bending a little more at the waist, John clutched at the sheets in front of him.

Sherlock was inside him. Thick and full and there, and John's body seemed to know things John didn't because it shifted without any conscious direction from him, moving so the angle was better, so Sherlock was deeper.

With both of them on their sides, they didn't have a lot of leverage, but they didn't need it. Even the small movements Sherlock was making inside him felt like the most intimate caress John had ever received. He wanted to open himself up, do whatever it took to get Sherlock deeper.

Sherlock slid his hand from John's hip up the center of his chest. Bending so that his chest was once again pressed against John's back, he kissed the back of John's neck, then the place where neck met shoulder.

All John could feel was Sherlock, inside and out, wrapped around him, moving inside him. It was too much and not enough.

When Sherlock moved his hand downward, John grabbed it, pulling it back to his chest, his own hand on top of Sherlock's, keeping it pressed against him.

"John," Sherlock whispered, his voice rough and desperate. "I can't… You feel too good."

Bringing Sherlock's hand to his lips, John kissed Sherlock's palm. "It's okay."

Groaning, Sherlock pressed his face to the back of John's neck and rocked his hips. John gasped. Sherlock was touching him in ways and in places John hadn't known he could be touched, his movements creating a focused pleasure that seemed to radiate everywhere. Hell, John was half-convinced he could feel it in his toes.

Sherlock's entire body jerked. It was happening. Sherlock was coming inside him. Even with the condom, John was certain he felt the pulsing of Sherlock's cock as he ejaculated. He definitely felt Sherlock shuddering against his back again and again.

"John," Sherlock said when he finished.

"Sherlock," John answered.

"I am going to touch you now."

John released his hold on Sherlock's hand and Sherlock wrapped it around John's prick. Reaching back, John clutched at Sherlock's hip, keeping Sherlock where he was.

It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to figure out exactly what John liked, and he put every bit of that knowledge to use. With just a few strokes, he had John panting on the edge of orgasm. Slowing his touch, he pressed his own softening prick as deeply into John as he could get. 

Sherlock brushed the head with his thumb while doing something too good for words to John's frenulum with the rest of his hand, and John arched, pressing his head back against Sherlock's shoulder as his cock pulsed in Sherlock's grip.

Every muscle in his arse seemed to contract as he came, tightening around the prick inside him, around Sherlock's prick. The sensation made him come even harder.

By the time his body stopped shaking, John was well and truly spent. He breathed deeply; pulling in the oxygen his muscles desperately seemed to need.

"That was amazing."

John chuckled and discovered that laughing with a prick in your arse was a strange sensation. "Yes it was."

Sherlock slipped free and pressed a kiss to John's shoulder. "Be right back."

Smiling to himself, John grabbed a pillow and pulled it about a third of the way down the bed to where his head was.

Sherlock returned with a damp flannel and used it to carefully wipe the lube from John's arse. Setting it on the table next to the bed, he slid back under the sheets. John turned on to his back and Sherlock curled up next to him.

John rested an arm lightly across Sherlock's shoulders while Sherlock wrapped what felt like his entire body around John, somehow managing to fill every space that had existed between them. Sherlock, John had discovered, liked to hold on for all he was worth but tended to get antsy if John did the same.

John was fine with that.

John was fine with a lot of things.

 

**When nothing was fine**

John stopped on the sidewalk and looked up at the door. He didn't particularly want to go inside.

He didn't want to go anywhere else either.

Hoping against hope that Lestrade had called with a case, he started up the stairs.

Sherlock had his microscope set up at the kitchen table and barely looked at John long enough to smile before putting his eyes back on the eyepiece.

Not for the first time, John was happy to be ignored.

Walking past Sherlock, he filled the kettle and turned it on. Resting his hands on the counter, he dropped his head forward, stretching out the muscles in the back of his neck. He liked working A & E, but there were days when he was certain the tension would never go away.

Hands rested on his shoulders, thumbs pressing just there. John hissed in relief.

Sherlock rubbed John's shoulders in silence, working his way slowly but steadily down John's back. They'd both become a lot more used to quiet in the time they were apart.

The kettle whistled.

John ignored it.

Sherlock slid his hands up John's back, once again resting them on John's shoulders. "Tell me."

"Murder suicide. Man shot his wife and two sons, then himself. There wasn't anything we could do for her, head wound. The boys – one of them didn't make it. The other is in intensive care."

"The boy in intensive care, he was your patient."

"Yeah."

Sherlock didn't say anything more. He simply wrapped his arms around John's shoulders.

John leaned back into him.

When he went to make tea, the kettle was cold.

 

**When John knows how to make it fine**

"Come on," John said, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and pulling him down onto the sofa.

"But—" Sherlock said.

"You solved the case. Now it's time to relax."

"Watching a ridiculous reality program about _choirs_ is hardly relaxing."

"Lay down and shut up."

Sighing, Sherlock stretched out on the sofa behind John, an arm over John's waist and a leg somehow insinuating itself between John's.

"That woman is obviously –"

"No deductions," John said, cutting him off.

"It's boring without deductions."

"You'll survive."

Sherlock grumbled in John's ear, but within minutes his breathing had begun to deepen.

When he was certain Sherlock was asleep, John picked up the remote and changed the channel.

 

**When Sherlock knows how to make it fine**

John despised the view from Bart's. 

Below him people walked along the sidewalk, going about their daily lives without even an upward glance, oblivious to what was happening inside even though the sign clearly said hospital.

Unlike Sherlock, John couldn't read their life histories from the style of briefcase they carried and the barely visible scuffs on their shoes. If he could have done, maybe he wouldn't have found them so irritating.

"John."

John turned.

Sherlock rolled his head in John's direction.

John refrained from saying something inane like 'you're awake.' "How are you feeling?" he asked, as he crossed from the window to the bed.

"Like I was stabbed. Did they catch him?"

"Yes."

"Good." 

"You were stabbed in the abdomen," John said, his efforts to keep his voice calm making it sound strained. "Abdominal wounds are serious, Sherlock. Life threatening. Another centimeter either way and there's a good chance we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Sherlock pressed the bed controls, raising the top half of the bed.

"Stop that," John said, reaching for the controls.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's wrist and tugged. "Sit."

Glaring, John sat on the edge of the bed. 

Instead of letting him go, Sherlock pulled until John was leaning almost into him and then wrapped his arms around John, keeping John tight against his chest.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, resting his cheek against the top of John's head. "I'm going to be fine."

Sherlock was going to be fine. John knew that, but he couldn't seem to convince his gut, which was still churning. 

With the hand still attached to an IV, Sherlock rubbed John's back. "Rest, John."

John did.

 

**When it will all be fine, hopefully**

"Peter's the best," John said.

Sherlock didn't stop his pacing. "So you've said." 

"He's who I'd want if I were—"

Sherlock waved him to silence.

The plastic chairs were damned uncomfortable and watching Sherlock pace was doing nothing for John's nerves. He stood. "You want something? Tea, coffee?"

Sherlock spun toward him. "I don't want any bloody tea." The words and the tone were angry, but John couldn't see a bit of that anger in Sherlock's face.

Stepping towards him, John lifted his hand to cup the side of Sherlock's neck. "He'll be fine, Sherlock."

"You don't know that."

"I believe it."

"I've never been good at belief."

"You're better at it than you think," John said, guiding Sherlock's head to his shoulder.

Surprisingly, Sherlock went, his arms locking around John's waist. 

John slid his own arms around Sherlock's shoulders and held on tight. "Mycroft's stronger than he looks, you know that better than anyone."

"I know."

"And they got him here quickly. That makes all the difference with heart attacks."

"I know," Sherlock murmured to John's shoulder.

"And when they let us in to see him, whatever you do, don't tell him you love him. We don't want to give him a relapse."

Sherlock huffed.

John kissed his temple and didn't let go.


End file.
